Guards of the Guardian
by soulnecklace
Summary: Many years ago, an unlikely friendship began. No one could have dreamed it would have lasted so long.


**Friends for Life: Guards of the Guardian.**

At twelve, Reginald was an orphan, his parents having been killed in a freak wave at sea. Or so one story went. Others said she pushed him in, then, toppling overboard, drowned herself. Either way, bodies and boat were never found and the young lad left behind needed care.

Off went Reg to the orphanage, a small and lovely stone building, bounded by roses and thatched with golden straw. And until Reg arrived, the house was a pleasant enough place. Five children lived there; three boys and two girls aged four to fourteen, under the care of Master and Mistress Bensemann. All had been orphaned through various accidents. And all the children, save Reg, missed their parents deeply.

Reg was given a room with Stefan and Griff. Reg, being an only child, was accustomed to getting his own way. He did not appreciate the company of others, and resented having to go to school. Truth be told, he did not miss his parents much, as they had been rarely home, spending most of their time at sea. But he did miss his house and the ability to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. In the orphanage, he felt hounded.

"Clean your room, Reg." "Make your bed, Reg." "Reg, wash behind your ears."

He glowered at Mistress Bensemann. "Ain't going to. You can't make me."

"I can't," she said. "But Master Bensemann can. You want to try your luck with my husband, boy?"

Master Bensemann, a butcher, had heavy, strong hands, and knew how to use them.

So Reg did as he was bid, though he did it reluctantly, with much sighing and evil looks.

"The amount of trouble required to get that boy to anything," said Mistress Bensemann to her husband. "I tell you, 'twould be easier to let him go his own way."

Her husband sniffed. "Seems he's had a more than enough of his own way."

When the adults weren't around, Reg took to tormenting the other children: leaving tacks in their beds, tripping them at the top of the stairs, pulling their hair on the way to school. Some nights he put a pillow on Stefan's face – it was funny to see Stefan thrash around like a beached fish. Once, the stupid boy wet the sheets. Mistress Bensemann had not been happy and oh, it had been grand to see goody-good Stefan get into trouble.

The little children avoided Reg as much as possible – only the unlucky Griff and Stefan had much contact with the thickset bully. They hated him greatly.

"Need to get rid of him," said Griff.

"But how?" Stefan asked.

"Could tell the Mistress?"

Stefan shook his head. "He'll know it was us. And when she's not there, he'll pick on us all the more."

Griff pursed his lips. "Hmmm. So, we need him to _want_ to leave."

Stefan nodded. "Exactly."

"How old is he, do you know?"

Griff looked surprised. "Same as us, ain't he? Near on thirteen?"

"I have an idea," said Stefan, slowly.

One summer evening, the boys sat upstairs in their bedchamber. Griff and Stefan were finishing their homework while Reg carved rude pictures on the roof beams.

"What are you going to do, when school finishes?" Griff asked Stefan. Schooling ended at the end of a child's thirteenth year. Most went on to work on a family business, or took an apprenticeship into a trade, although it could be a mite different for orphans.

"I'm going in for scribery," Stefan said, proudly. "Schoolmaster recommended me special."

Reg pretended not to listen, but inside he smiled. Who wanted to be a scribe – locked in a room all day, peering at letters on a page? Puny Stefan was ideal scriber fodder, with his peaky nose and his tiny, pale, useless body.

"What about you?" Stefan asked.

Griff smiled. "Mistress Bensemann says there's an opening at the millhouse."

Despite himself, Reg was impressed. Milling was a good trade. A miller had status.

Griff looked at Reg. "Reg? What will you do?"

Surprised that they would talk to him direct, Reg shrugged. He'd never considered what he would do once school ended. School just …was.

"Have you thought about the army?" asked Griff.

"Whatcha mean?" Reg asked.

"The army," said Griff. "Didn't you see them at school? They're recruiting - they want boys like you."

Reg blinked. Did Griff actually pay _attention_ at school? Reg just stared out the window, letting his mind go blank. He loved the feeling of letting his mind just float.

Stefan looked at Griff. "Mind you, you have to be pretty strong to be in the army."

Reg was strong. He was well-built, everyone said so. And, when Mistress Bensemann nagged him enough, he could chop wood faster than the rest of the orphans.

Once the other boys were asleep, Reg lay thinking about the army. Would be a good place for him, all those weapons. Imagine being high on a horse, with a lance and a sword and shield. Maybe even a squire. And if there was fighting, he'd be sure to win. Then he'd be a hero!

"Sir Reg," he whispered in the darkness. "Sir Reginald."

In the morning, he went to Mistress Bensemann. "I want to join the army."

"Are you sure, Reg? 'Tis a hard life."

Was she calling him a weakling? "I'm strong," he said, pulling up his sleeve so she could see his muscles. "See?"

"Stop showing off, you young fool," growled Master Bensemann. He scratched the back of his neck, looked at his wife. "Might be good for him and all."

Mistress Bensemann still looked worried. "Don't know if he's the type they want."

"Course he is," said Stefan, chipper after an unusually good sleep. "He'll fit right in."

"You'll have to work hard, boy. They won't tolerate no shirking in the army. You sure you're up to it?"

Forgetting that he protested each and every chore, Reg felt stung. "Course I am."

Master Bensemann stood, put his empty porridge bowl in the washing up barrel. "Well, lad, if that's what you want, I'll have a word with the recruiters."

Reg got his own breakfast from the porridge pot, poured milk on it. Never even a thought of saying thank you, thought Mistress Bensemann. But that's the lad all over. He'll be in for a shock, army life being all about discipline.

She caught Stefan and Griff exchanging a look and a smile. So, that's where this has come from. Reg has been put up to this. Ah, well, it will be better for the rest of the children if he's gone. It might have been her imagination, but breakfast seemed more cheerful than usual.

Greg

Gregor didn't want to be a smith. He hated horses. And they hated him back.

One morning, Farmer Davies brought a chestnut mare to the smithy. "Needs a new shoe."

"Greg!" shouted his father. "Work the bellows, will you?"

The mare's eyes were milky with age and she stood patiently on the cobbles, munching dried oats. But when Greg grabbed the bellows, she pricked up her ears, shook her head. Oats scattered across the floor, some landing in the fire. The smithy smelt of roasting grain.

The smith made a grab for the halter. Caught it. The animal thrashed her head about, trying to free herself. "Eh lass, all's well. All's well."

The mare wouldn't calm until after the lad had left the stables.

"Never seen aught like it," said the smith, later. "What did you do, boy, to make the animal hate you so?"

"Nothing," said Greg, sullenly.

"Horses ain't stupid, boy," said his father. "There's a reason why they do this around you." He looked at his youngest. Always a problem, this boy. Sullen, resentful. Near onto thirteen years old - soon he would be too old for school. He needed a trade.

"What do you like doing, Gregor?" he asked, abruptly.

Greg blinked. His enormous father hardly ever spoke to him, let alone addressed him by name. Usually it was two words or a grunt – eat up, go here, go there, faster.

"Come on, lad. Out with it."

"I'd like to..." Greg looked at his feet, shook his head. "You'll think it's silly." Should he tell his father? What would he say? That what he loved most in the world was not the smithy, but watching the metal transform in the heat – turning into something beautiful and strong. "I want to make weapons." He mumbled the words, saying them softly in case his father laughed at him.

His father snorted. "You? An armourer!"

"Why not?"

"Don't be silly, lad. Not much call for armoury work in this town."

Greg nodded. "But there's a need for armourers at the castle. Sir."

The smith rubbed his jaw, looked at his son.

"Besides," added Greg, "there's seven of us boys – you ain't room for another son in the smithy. But at the castle ..." He swallowed.

"Aye," said the smith, thoughtfully. He nodded, as if to say the conversation was over, and stood.

"Armourer?" asked Greg's Ma. "Sounds so grand, don't it? Just the thing for our Greg."

"He's not right material for an armourer. They're all foreign, and excitable. Not our sort at all."

"What do you mean? Greg would be just fine. After all, he's used to a smithy."

"Letty. He hates being a blacksmith."

"He does not!"

The smith shook his head. "I watch him, dragging his feet. Never presses the bellows unless I ask him."

"When he's grown, and his muscle is there, he'll be just fine."

The smith looked out the bedchamber window. Down in the yard stood Greg, throwing stones at the kitchen cats.

"Maybe," he said.

Nervously, the smith walked up the hill, towards the castle. The walls of the outer keep, covered in scaffolding, seemed as tall as the sky. Buckets swung from pulleys. Men scurried up and down the wooden planks, shouting orders to each other. Simon Smith stood at the far end of the drawbridge and looked up. It all looked mighty precarious. That clambering about in the air – weren't natural. Ever since that foolish Duke had invaded, near to forty years ago, the King had been a-building those walls. How much higher were they going to go?

"Smith?" called the guard. "What's your business here?"

"Come to visit your armourer."

"Master Portenary? Hope you've brought a thick skin with you." The guard nudged his colleague. "He's in a foul mood. Better keep your head down when you speak to him." He jerked a thumb towards the castle. "Over you go."

The smith set off across the narrow drawbridge.

"And don't say I didn't warn you," called the guard.

Master Portenary, a little man in purple velvet, stood atop a barrel. His pomaded hair and moustache gleamed in the morning sun and he barely seemed to notice the smith. "I will no' allow it, do you hear? It is of all things the most 'orrible. No! No! A thousand times – No."

Setting his hands on his hips, the armourer glared at the woman in the embroidered dress. He seemed unimpressed by her pearls and elaborate gown.

"My good man. Calm yourself. Is what I am asking so very terrible?"

"Si. Si. Is terrible. Go against nature. God himself would not allow it. Me, _I_ will not allow it."

"Nonsense!" she said briskly. "Of course you will." With a swirl of her skirts she turned.

"My lady," the smith gasped, whipping off his cap. Master Portenary glared at her retreating back.

Squeezing his hat tight, the smith approached the barrel. Keeping a respectful distance, he coughed.

The little armourer blinked. "Yes? Wha' do you want?"

The smith explained briefly about Greg. "My son, sir, a most promising youth, brought up in a smithy so he is, anxious to learn a trade."

The armourer sniffed, held out a hand for assistance, and clambered down from the barrel. Simon tried not to smile. He's barely reaches my shoulders. Why, I could fold him up and tuck him in a bag.

"Na, na," said the armourer. "Send me no boys. I neva take a lad. Neva."

"But sir, indeed, he is a hard worker."

The armourer waved his hand at the sheds behind him. Full of men they were, banging at steel, plunging metal into baths, molding wax, working with small, tiny squares of steel.

"Plenty men here, already. See?" he pointed "Waxmen, hinge makers. Gilders."

Everyone seemed to be full-grown, not a boy among them.

"Where are your apprentices?" asked the smith.

"Me, I do no' take 'prentices."

"But, sir. How do you train boys in your craft?"

"Armoury is no' a Craft. It is an Art." The armourer tapped his chest. "Comes from in here. The heart. Your boy – well. Me, I tell you now. Send him to the army. Mus' use weapons before he tries to make them." He snorted. "That woman, you see her?"

The smith swallowed. "The Princess, sir?"

Master Ponterary waved a hand. "Princess! Poof! What care I for this Princess?"

The smith swallowed. What should he say? If he agreed with the armourer he might be locked up for treason. But if he disagreed – well, there went all hope for Greg. "Master – what has angered you so?"

The armourer lifted up both hands, as if entreating heaven. "She wish to have her own armoury! 'Tis madness, I tell her, but she no' listen to me. She listen to no one. I must have it, little man, she say to me and when I protes' saying no tis against God and nature my lady – oh I am mos' polite, me, I am all politeness - she jus' say make it so good sir, and then she walk away! I ask you - how can a woman make armour? She canno'. No woman can make armour, for no woman will ever wear it." He dabbed a white handkerchief to his forehead.

"That is your argument, sir? That one cannot make a weapon unless he has first wielded one?"

"Si, of course, of course." The armourer snorted. "You are a man. You understan' But that Woman! She no' understan' this. Mus' use something. Then you know it - in your heart." He thumped his chest. "Once you care – then you learn."

"So – my son? He should enlist in the army first? Learn how to use these weapons?"

The armourer nodded. "Si. Si. Make him a soldier, if he good soldier, then, maybe I take him."

The smith bowed. "Thank you, sir."

"Is nothing." The armourer wiped his forehead, sighed deeply, as though life was one long trial. Staring over the smith's shoulder, he frowned. "Ah no! No" you again? I tell you – no. no. A zousand times, no!"

Princess Francesca! The smith knelt, plopping on one knee into the mud. Hands on her hips, the Princess didn't even look at him. Her attention was fixed on the armourer. "Little man. I heard what you were saying. You think I want an armourery to make _weapons_?"

Princess Francesca was tall as most men. Curly hair, piled high on her head, made her height seem even greater. She was broad shouldered too, her arms heavily muscled. The sun glinted on a curious chain about her neck.

"For wha' else would you need it?"

She snorted. "What would I want with swords? Or armour?"

The armourer scratched his head. "You say - give me an armourery, but you no' wan to make weapon? Makes no sense. Wha' for you wish this thing then?"

The princess turned, seemed to notice the smith groveling at her feet. "You – what are you doing down there? Get up, man."

Gratefully, the smith stood. The Princess looked at the quivering, indignant armourer. "God's Teeth, Master Ponterary – I'm not after an entire armoury! I only want a furnace. "

"Madam," asked the smith, then wished he'd kept quiet, because both the Princess and the armourer looked at him. He swallowed. "Um, Madam? Why do want a furnace?"

The question sounded natural enough, but inside, he quaked. Oh Lady Mother of God, here I am, actually _speaking_ to the Princess.

"Because," the Princess stopped and touched the chain at her neck. "You see this?"

Both the smith and the armourer nodded.

"I made it."

" 'Tis finely made," said the smith.

The armourer looked at it closely. "Si. Is …good enough."

The Princess smiled. "I thank you, sirs. But for what I want to make, more heat is required."

"An wha'," asked the armourer, "is it you wish to make, huh?"

"I saw in a dream," the Princess took a deep breath, "A chain, made of shining silver. But fine, very fine, and extremely strong. With a clasp…Such a clasp that has never yet been made. My mother has seen it, too."

The smith caught his breath. She was speaking of the Guardian, Lady Sylvianne, who lived in the tower and cast spells! Here he was, standing here, actually speaking to someone who _knew_ the Guardian. Just wait until he told Letty.

The armourer paused. "Zo. Guardian, wants zis furnace, also?"

The Princess nodded.

"Why you no' say? For the making of the jewellery – is ver' delicate. I have a gilder who will 'elp you."

The Princess smiled. "So – you agree?"

The amourer nodded. "Si. But – no weapons, mind."

"Sir," the Princess straightened herself to her full height, stared down at the men "What I am about to make will be…"

"Wha' Wha' will it be?"

"More than a weapon," she said softly. "Much, much more. It will outlast me." She looked down at Master Ponterary, who, much to the smith's surprise, was smiling as if his face would crack.

"Lady! I kiss your hands and feet," he grabbed the surprised Princess's hands. "Only an artis' 'opes his work will last."

The day after the harvest festival the castle road was full of likely lads, with Greg and Reg among them. Onto the parade grounds they marched. Simon and Letty Smith thought their son cut a fine figure, a head taller than most of the other boys – already a man! Letty wiped away a tear.

The recruiters walked among the lads, inspecting them as a man checks cattle: looking at feet, at teeth. They held races – sprints, hurdles, climbing – watching for those with weaknesses.

At the end of the day a small group of quiet, dispirited boys wended their way back down the mountain. Often and often the smith heard "never mind, son." And "something else will come along."

But the smith's son had passed the test. For the next two years Greg would be apprenticed to the guards. Walking down the hill, the smith found himself thinking fondly of his tall, sullen son. Ah, and maybe he might miss the lad, after all.

No-one missed Reg. Soon as it was known he had entered the guards the other orphans heaved a collective sigh of relief. Not that Reg realized, or cared; on entering the castle, he'd barely given a thought to the orphans, or the orphanage. There simply wasn't time in the day.

"Right lads!" bellowed Sergeant Rickards, a short man with a barrel chest and sticking-out ears, "Wehlcome to the King's Army. I am your new mother. Any problems, don't bring them to me, see? You sort out your own little difficulties, friendly like.

Now – there's two things for you to remember. One. No Fighting. I see anyone spouting a broken tooth – there'll be questions asked. Broken teeth make a boy look ugly. And I don't want no ugly lads in this here squad. And Two - keep your kit tidy. Clothes folded, boots tucked away under the bed. Your ma – that's me, now, remember – ain't going to clean up after you. A tidy army is a strong army."

Life in the guards was far from the heroic future Reg had hoped for. Instead, it seemed to consist of walking and climbing. And endless amounts of cleaning. Sergeant Rickards had a passion for dirt-free floors, and anyone who lagged behind was sure to find himself in charge of a scrubbing brush.

They learned archery – how to string a bow, how to set an arrow to the string. How to draw back the string.

"Don't _pluck_ the ruddy string. Don't want no lute players in the army," growled the sergeant. "Lean into the bow. Feel the wood bend with your weight."

Like most things in the army, this was harder than it looked. Wooden bows were heavy, and Reg found it hard to hold the draw, so for the first few weeks he broke many a practice arrow. The other boys, who had seemingly been taught archery in their cradle, laughed at him. And sword practice – using wooden swords – had been a tiny piece of hell until another lad had taken pity on him, showed him how to grip the handle, how to move. It had been a strange feeling, asking and receiving help.

Until it was time for buffets. Reg, his fists encased in padded gloves, could stand on his own right enough.

Reg barely thought of bothering his fellow guards at night. He was too exhausted. Once the lights were out, he wasn't stirring for no-one. But that didn't mean he wasn't to try to get his own back on those who laughed at him. He did this only when the cadets were free of sergeant oversight: stealing apples from plates, pushing into the cookhouse queue, tripping the boys on cleaning duty.

Much later, he realized how stupid this was. Unlike the orphanage, the other recruits were strong and healthy and resented his actions. After a month of petty annoyances: pushes and trips and small thefts, the other boys ganged together.

Reg stood in the washroom, sluicing himself down with cold water.

"Get him!' whispered a lad.

A strong arm pushed into the small of his back. Suddenly, Reg's feet fell away. Thump! He landed hard on the stone floor.

"Hold him down!"

Reg blinked, stared up at Jeremy, a lad from Cammar. Two boys grabbed his arms, pushed him back on the cold wet stone. He struggled there like a beached fish. "What? How?"

Jeremy loomed over Reg. "Watch your balance, boy. Falling over – gonna get hurt." The other boys laughed. "Gotta be careful, Reg. Tidy army is a strong army."

"Sock him, Jem," said one lad.

Jem squatted down, so his eyes were level with Reg. "You think I didn't see you nick my food? What you take us for, Reg?"

"Dunno what you mean."

"Oh yeah. Sure." Jem looked up, glaring into the sea of faces. "Says he don't know what I'm talking about."

"He stole your apple. I seed it," said a rat-faced boy with ginger hair.

"Took my blanket," growled another.

"Aye," grumbled a third. "Pushed me into the ditch, like, when Sergeant warn't watching."

"I never did," said Reg, indignant.

"Yeah, you did. I seed you."

Looking over at the door, Jeremy sneered. "Sergeant ain't here, now." He drew back his fist. "So. We wants to tell you somefing. Leave us alone, you little arse."

"Or what?" sneered Reg.

"Or we gets you." Jem punched Reg hard, in the nose. "Like this."

Reg's head flew back, hit the stone floor. Blood scattered. "Oww!" His face felt as though it was going to explode.

The boys laughed. "Again. Do it again!"

At the back of the crowd, Greg peered over the heaving backs. He felt kind of sorry for Reg. Hadn't Reg tried to aid Greg at buffets? Maybe it had been because Greg had helped him at the swordplay – after all, the son of a smith had an advantage at the weaponry.

There was a sudden crunch of bone, and Reg screamed. A trickle of red flowed into the guttering, past Greg's feet, out into the courtyard.

"Hey!" Greg yelled.

"Quiet," said the boy in front. "You'll call the sergeant."

Good, thought Greg. What sort of soldiers will these boys make? What sort of a guard tortures his own team-mate? Suddenly, Greg remembered himself, throwing stones at a horse. He felt a sudden flush of shame, an awareness of something. What was it? A sense of connections, of between his actions, his future. One day, he thought, I might have need of that animal. I hope not, though. She'll never do owt for me now. She knows me. Hates me, even.

"Leave him be," he shouted, his deep voice cutting through the crowd.

"Shame!" "You're spoiling sport." "Sod off Greg. He's got it coming."

Greg pushed his way through the crowd, stared down at Reg.

Looking up, Reg thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

Greg glared at the other boys. "You want him to lose a tooth?"

Jeremy smiled. "Maybe."

"You want to explain that to Sergeant Rickard?"

Jeremy paused. Blinked. The other boys muttered together. "He's got a point, Jem." "Remember what old Rickards said."

Jeremy dropped his fist. "All right. Let him go," he said curtly.

With reluctance, the boys loosed their grip. Feeling woozy, Reg sat up. Grumbling, the other cadets left the washroom.

Greg squatted down beside Reg. Jem was right, the boy had been an arse. Still, all those lads, picking on someone when he was down. It weren't right. Weren't fair. "You okay?"

"Thanks." Reg mouth was full of blood. He spat it out, and it dribbled down the floor, into the guttering. Cautiously, he poked at his nose. It felt wobbly. Was it broken?

"Come on." Greg pulled him to his feet.

Reg blinked at him. "Thanks. What's your name?" The face was familiar, but oh, the dizziness. One eye was swelling; he could barely see from it. Would he have a black eye? How would he explain that to Rickards? He felt sick.

"I'm Greg." The other boy looked at him seriously. "You're real pale. Are okay?

"I think so. Maybe." When Reg turned his head the world seemed to spin. He shut his eyes, swallowed. "I'm Reg."

"Pleased to meet you," Greg put out his hand.

Opening his eyes, Reg saw it and smiled. Solemnly, the boys shook hands.

"What happened to you?" Sergeant Rickards growled.

"An accident, sir," Reg felt cautiously proud of himself. After all, he'd not been sick, not cried, not anything. None of those bullies had seen him soften.

"And will there be any more of these… 'accidents'?"

"I hope not, sir."

"I'll keep an eye on him from now on," added Greg.

Sergeant Rickards looked at the smith's son standing to attention behind the battered Reg. He smiled tightly. "Very good."

He'd never before thought of the smith's son as deserving of special treatment. But this recent dust-up – well. Showed a bit of character. Gregor, wasn't it? A well-proportioned boy, and good with the swords. Might be worth keeping an eye on him. Always an opening in the armoury for boys with a flair for weaponry.

Reg smiled too, although it pulled his face horribly. It felt strange, having someone looking out for him. Strange, but not unpleasant.

Greg took a deep breath, feeling the world suddenly shift beneath his feet. Like everything was spinning. He reached out for the wall, felt rough stone beneath his fingers and gripped it tightly.

_My future,_ he thought, suddenly. _I'm looking at times to come_.

The stone was cold and hard under his fingers. Solid, and reassuringly normal.

Don't be foolish, Gregor Smitherson. You ain't no fortune teller. But the sense that something strange lay ahead remained. It was like being in a tunnel, staring out at a strange and peculiar landscape.

Sergeant Rickards stared at them. "Odd," he said. "For a moment, I thought…. You two – you could almost be brothers. You sure you're not related?"

Gingerly, Reg shook his head. "No family, sir. An orphan."

"Ah well," said the Sergeant. "You belong together now."


End file.
